


What If...Steve Rogers was the Father of Jessica Jones's Baby?

by Perpetual Motion (perpetfic)



Category: Alias (Comics)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, What if?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/pseuds/Perpetual%20Motion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve, Jessica, and a bun in the oven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What If...Steve Rogers was the Father of Jessica Jones's Baby?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [innocentsmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/innocentsmith/gifts).



 

"You're what?" Steve asks, blinking.  He looks like someone's socked the air out of him.  "Did you say—"

 

"Pregnant," I repeat.  "Knocked up.  With child.  In a family way.  Bun in the oven.  Baby on board—"

 

"Okay," Steve says, holding up a hand.  "All right.  I get it."  He pauses, looks at my stomach.  "It's mine?"

 

I roll my eyes and put my hands on my hips.  "No, genius.  I wanted to practice, and I figured you'd make a good dry run."  He continues to gape at me.  I consider calling him an asshole.  "You're being an asshole."  It didn't make me feel better because Steve looks like I just punted a puppy for a field goal.

 

"Marry me," he offers.

 

I laugh before I can stop myself and feel worse as Steve looks even more disappointed.  "That's not a good idea."

 

"Why not?"  He looks earnest and honest, and it makes my stomach twist.  "I'll take care of you, Jess."

 

It's tempting.  But so is the bottle of whiskey back at my apartment.  "I'm not a distressed damsel, Steve.  I'm knocked up—"

 

"With my kid," he points out.

 

"And in this fine modern age, I'm allowed to raise this kid how I see fit."

 

"I want to help," he says, voice soft, eyes hopeful.  I go from feeling bad to feeling like a total fuck.  "Don't marry me if you don't want to," he says, "but let me help, at least."

 

Part of me screams no, screams I don't need his damned help, but another part of me points out that I might make Captain America cry, and that would fucking suck.  "Fine," I agree, and let my hair fall across my face so I can't see him in my peripheral vision when I turn my head.  "Whatever."

 

*

 

"You're what?" Carol asks me a day later, and her surprised yelp sounds amazingly like Steve's.  I wonder if Steve's already told her.

 

"I'm pregnant with Steve's kid," I repeat.

 

"Steve Rogers?"

  
I roll my eyes.  "No, Steve Buscemi.  I hope the little monster has his daddy's bug eyes."

 

Carol shakes her head, squeezes her eyes closed.  "I don't need to picture that."

 

"The eyes?"

 

"You having sex with Steve."  She shudders.

 

I smack her on the arm.  "I am not that gross naked."

 

"I still don't want to picture you having sex."  She shakes her head again.  "Steve, sure.  But you?"

 

"Oh, come on—"

 

"You're like my little sister, Jess," Carol says, her face settling into sincerity.  "I do not want to picture you having sex."

 

"Fine.  Whatever.  It was great, by the way." I say to watch her squirm.  She opens her mouth again.  "Tell me you're happy for me," I add.  "Tell me I'm not going to fuck up this kid."

 

Carol closes her mouth, reaches over and touches my hand.  "C'mon, Jess, you can't think that."

 

"But I do.  I mean, hell, look at my track record."

 

"What about it?" Carol asks.  "You don't have a track record with kids."

 

"I made one cry once," I admit.  "Couple of them."

 

"So what?"  Carol leans back in her chair, crosses her arms.  "Kids cry.  Hell, the first three years of their lives all they do is shit, scream, and cry.  Making one cry is not an accomplishment."

 

I feel myself smiling.  "Thanks."

 

"You're welcome."

*

 

Steve's late for the first sonogram appointment, running into the room just as the doctor squirts the lube all over my stomach.  He laughs when I yelp. " Can it," I snap at him. 

 

"Sorry," he says.  He steps forward, and I can see the edge of his uniform under his button-down. 

 

"You missed a button," I say, pointing at his throat.

 

He does it up, giving me a smile.  "There was a thing," he starts to explain, but I hold up a hand to stop him.

 

"Soldier, blah-blah, honor, yadda-yadda, serum, and-so-on."

 

"Something like that," Steve agrees.  His smile gets soft when he looks at the monitor.  "Where's the baby?" he asks the doctor.

 

"I…" The doctor squints at the screen.  "I'm not exactly sure."

"Is something wrong?" I ask.  "Did I fuck something up?"

 

The doctor looks shocked at my language.  Steve lays a hand on the back of my neck.  "Easy," he says, voice quiet.  "I'm sure it's just the sonogram malfunctioning."  I shrug him off, give him a glare.

 

"Let me get another machine," the doctor says and walks out of the room.

 

"Great," I mutter.

 

"I'm sure it's fine," Steve says.  "You've been eating right, sleeping—you've been sleeping, right?"

 

"Sure."

"Jess."

 

I sigh, drag my hands through my hair.  "Kind of.  I’m not supposed to sleep on my back, but if I sleep on my side, it hurts."  I point a finger at him before he can say anything else.  "I'm trying; it's the best I can do."

 

Steve wrinkles his nose.  "I think you just got the lubricating jelly in your hair."  He reaches out, holds up a lock of hair for inspection.

 

"Not the first time," I say before I can stop myself.  "It's not," I tell him when he gives me an exasperated look.  "I'm not going to pretend like you're the only guy I've ever fucked."

 

His lips thin when he presses them together.  "I’m not here to start a fight."

 

"Don't look at me like that," I snap.  "I don't need this on top of everything else."

"Which part?"  Steve asks, but before I can answer, the doctor walks back in.  He looks between Steve and I, obviously picking up the vibe in the room.

 

"Should I come back?"

 

"No, you're fine." Steve says, taking a step away from me as the doctor plugs in the new machine.  We glare at each other as the doctor flips the switch and the machine hums to life.  I break eye contact to look over, feel my stomach roll.

 

"It's probably got a third leg," I say, not meeting Steve's eyes.  "Or weird ears or something."

 

"Don't worry about the ears," Steve replies, and his tone softens halfway through the sentence.  "Mine used to stick out when I was a kid.  I grew out of it."

 

I laugh, and it surprises me, but not as much as the doctor putting the sonogram reader thing on my stomach.  "Hey!" I yelp.  "Ask a lady before you feel her up."

 

The doctor doesn't even look at me.  He's squinting at the screen again.  "I'm still getting interference," he says.  He purses his lips.  "Ms. Jones, do you have powers?"

 

I blink.  "Powers?"

 

"She does," Steve says at the same time.  "Does that matter?"

 

"My equipment isn't powers-friendly," the doctor says.  "It's probably what's causing the interference."

 

"You're a New York OB," I snap.  "How are you not powers-friendly?"

 

"Jess—"  Steve starts.

 

"It's stupid," I interrupt.  "Sitting here, lube on my stomach like I'm in a weird porno, and the fucking OB is the only one in the five damned boroughs who doesn't have powers-friendly equipment?  I thought—"  I stop.  Swallow hard.

 

"Do you have a recommendation?"  Steve asks, polite.

 

"I have a list of names," the doctor says.  "I'll have the nurse bring them in."

 

"Thanks," Steve replies, his voice a clear dismissal.

 

I close my eyes until I hear the latch click on the door; I jump when Steve touches my hair.  "I could so fuck this up," I mutter.

 

He pulls my head against his chest, massages my scalp with his fingers.  "You're not doing this alone," he says.  "I promise you, you don't have to do this alone."

 

I want to tell him I know, but I can't push it out, can't even manage a thank you for the fact that he's here, that he's trying to keep me calm, that he let me yell at the doctor like it wasn't a total asshole move, and that he's willing to put aside the fact that I was total asshole to him, too.  "Steve…"  I breathe in, push it out.  "Thanks."  It's so quiet I barely hear it, but I feel Steve's smile against the top of my head.

 

"Half that kid is mine," he says, and his hand presses against my stomach for a moment before jerking back up.

 

"It'll rinse right off," I tell him.   




 

"You've had some experience?" he asks, and I don't bother to take a swipe at him.

 

"Bring me paper towels," I order.  "I'm pregnant and gooey."

 

Steve insists on wiping off my stomach, index finger tracing the slight bump that's starting to take shape.  "That's our kid in there," he murmurs.  "Our brat."

 

My heart hammers in my chest.  Steve looks like everything he's ever wanted is about to come true.  "I love you," I mutter, and his head shoots up.  "Ignore that," I say before he can open his mouth.  "I'm hormonal.  It doesn't count."  Steve opens his mouth to reply at the same time someone knocks on the door.  He sets his jaw, obviously planning to have his say.  "Come in!" I holler before he can.

 

A nurse walks in, wet naps in one hand, the referral list in the other.  Steve takes the referral list before I can grab it.  "My pick," he says in his team leader tone.

 

"Okay," I say and look away, taking the wet naps from the nurse and cleaning the rest of the goo off my stomach as the nurse talks about how the list is broken down.

 

Steve doesn't look at me as we leave the office.  He doesn't look at me when we get on the subway.  He walks me to my door and puts a hand on my arm before I can get away.  "If you don't want me to be here for you, fine.  But you're still carrying my child, and I'm still here for that, and I don't appreciate being told to ignore you because you're hormonal.  That's cowardly."

 

He walks away before I can find my voice to respond.  Fuck.

 

*

 

"Jesus, Jessica; why didn't you just slap him across the face?"

 

"Shut up," I growl.  "Just shut up."

Carol blows out a breath.  "I can't believe you did that.  It's cold even for you.  How could you tell him you love him, and then tell him it doesn’t count?  That's just cruel." 

 

"I'll kick you," I threaten.  "Pretty sure my super-kick can make you hurt no matter how much more power you have."

 

Carol smirks.  "You're not the first to try."

 

"Fuck," I breathe out.  "Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck."

 

"You like him."

 

"Yeah," I admit.

 

"Do you like him or like-like him?"  Carol rolls her eyes when I pull a face.  "Well, I'd ask if you loved him, but since you've already shot that in the damned foot, I figured I'd avoid it."

 

"I like him," I say.  "I probably like-like him a little."

 

"You think you could love him?"  She asks it quietly, like saying it too loud will freak me out.

 

"Right now, you mean?"

 

Carol shrugs.  "Now, maybe.  Or sometime.  You're having his kid, honey.  You're having Steve Roger's kid.  If he were more upstanding we could use him as a flagpole.  It's worth considering."

 

"What if it was you?" I ask.  "Say you were in Steve's place, what would you want?"

 

"The truth.  If you don't love him, fine.  If you love him or think you could love him, you have to tell him, and you have to do it without wimping out and blaming your hormones. "

 

I stare out the window.  "Yeah," I mutter.

 

"Yeah?"  Carol asks.

  
"Yes," I say louder.  I look at her.  "I got it."

 

"He's a good guy.  You could literally not do better."

 

"Yeah."  I press a hand to my stomach, look down at it.  "I know."

 

*

 

Malcolm walks into my office the next day and hands me a note.  "Steve Rogers just called, said to give you this name and address.  Said he'd meet you there at three tomorrow."

I look at the note.  It's the address for the Xavier Institute.  "You're sure about the address?"

"Yes," Malcolm replies.  He's practically vibrating to ask.  "You didn't mention you were working a case up there," he says, but it's too fast and high-pitched to be casual.

 

"Go file something," I tell him, and he starts to walk away.  "Wait," I say, "why didn't you put the call through?"

 

"He said not to."

 

Fuck.  I look up; Malcolm is still standing in my doorway.  "Keep leaving," I tell him.  He shuts the door behind him, but I can still hear him muttering rude things about me as he moves around the outer office.  I pick up the phone, dial the number for the Mansion, and flip the paper over and over between my fingers as I wait for someone to pick up.

 

"Avengers Mansion," Jarvis answers.  I wonder, as always, if I've interrupted him cleaning up the dirt and rubble from the latest battle.

 

"Hey, it's Jessica Jones.  Is Steve around, Jarvis?"

 

"Just a moment."

 

I cringe when the hold music comes on.  Jen Walters delights in finding the most obnoxious music in the world, and it sounds like someone is shoving a cat through a toilet paper tube while lighting it on fire.

 

"Hello?"  Steve sounds polite.

 

"Hey, it's me."  I tap my fingers on my desk and wait for him to say something.  He stays quiet.  "I got your message," I say into the silence.  I was just wondering—"

 

"Hank McCoy wasn't on the list, but he says he can definitely be an OB if you need.  And his equipment is uniquely set up to deal with people with a variety of power fluctuations."

 

"Okay," I say.  I twist a piece of hair around my finger.  "Thanks.  I…I really appreciate that."

 

"I'll see you there tomorrow."

 

"Yeah.  Tomorrow."

 

He hangs up on me, and I stare at he receiver before I put it down.  I've heard Steve mad before.  I'm heard him aloof.  I've heard him polite.  I've never heard him disinterested, though, and I wonder how to fix it.

 

*

 

 Steve's waiting in the driveway of the mansion when I pull up.  He's leaning against his bike, leather jacket open to the breeze, and he gives me a sharp nod when I walk up to him.  "Hank's ready whenever we are," he says, and he turns to lead the way.

 

"Hold up."  I grab his arm, wait for him to look at me. "I was a bitch," I start.  "And I'm sorry.  I didn't mean…" I shake my head, push my hair off my face with my free hand.  "You're my friend, and you're a good guy, and I shouldn't have been so short with you."

 

"No," Steve agrees and says nothing else.

 

I squint at him, tempted to insult him just to get a reaction.  "Can we agree that I'm fucked-up but trying and that you're willing to call me on my shit?"

 

He cocks his head and measures out my sincerity.  I count to twenty before he smiles just a little.  "All right," he agrees. 

 

"Thanks."  I don't let go of his arm right away, and he doesn't move away from me.  His hair looks white-blonde when the sun hits it, and I wonder, for the first time, what the kid will look like. 

 

"Come on," he says, and he tucks my hand into his elbow.  "Let's go see what's cooking in there."

 

I let him lead me in the front door, and Hank's in the foyer, reading a medical journal.  He grins when he sees us, gives Steve an enthusiastic hug and gives me a smaller version of it, careful not to slap me on the back.

 

"May I?"  he asks, hand reaching for my stomach.  I nod.  "Babies are such a wonderful way to start people," Hank says in the tone that means he's quoting.  He puts his hand against my bump like he's palming a glass basketball.  "Don Herrold was always wonderfully concise in the matter of children."

 

"Should I know that name?" I ask, watching Hank's claws and fearing a puncture.

 

"Humorist," Hank says and removes his hand.  "1889 until 1966.  He's quite out of fashion now, but still very useful in certain moments."  He smiles at me, at Steve, and leads the way to the basement.  "I assume you've been trying to eat healthy," he says.

 

"I had a bacon cheeseburger for breakfast," I admit.  "But I had it with milk."

"And coffee?"  Steve prompts.

 

"Decaf," I reply.  "Really," I insist when Hank half-turns to look at me.  "Pregnant," I remind them.  "Cravings.  Be grateful I don't want avocado and anchovy ice cream at two in the morning."

 

Hank chuckles and Steve grins.  I try to heave myself onto the exam table and nearly fall over backward.  Steve catches me, gets me settled, doesn't take his hand from my arm as Hank starts to grease up my belly and turn on the sonogram.

 

"I need a crib," I say as Hank starts searching for signs of the kid.  "If you've got time."  I watch the gray and black swirls on the screen.

 

"Saturday?" Steve asks.  "I can borrow one of Tony's SUVs, in case you find something you like."

 

"Yeah," I agree.  "That'll work."

 

We go silent, still not looking at each other.  Hank doesn't try to fill the room with commentary, and I'm grateful.  It's another two minutes before he stops moving around the sensor.  "There," he says and points to the screen. 

 

I squint, glance at Steve.  He's squinting too.  "Where?" I ask.

 

"The small circle here," Hank traces a slightly lighter gray circle with his index finger, "and the one below it."

 

"I see it," Steve says, and the pride in his voice makes my throat catch.  "You see it, Jess?"

 

I don't.  I squint again, cock my head.  "Maybe," I admit.  "I don't know."

 

Hank shifts the sensor an inch.  "Now?" he asks.

 

I'm about to say no, but it suddenly comes into focus like one of those Magic Eye things that made me crazy in high school.  The head, the torso, and something else, something rectangular.  "Is that a foot?"

 

Hank adjusts his glasses and leans forward.  Steve's hand tightens on my arms.  "It's a foot," Hank confirms.  "And I feel quite safe in assuming there is a second—and there it is."  Another rectangle wriggles into view.

 

"Holy shit," I mutter.  Hank beams at me.  When I look at Steve, he has tears in his eyes.  "That's…"  The room narrows, expands; I have to breathe deep to keep from passing out.  "Holy shit." I repeat.

 

"Not the most expected response," Hank says, "but lovely all the same."  He leans over, flips a switch, and a repetitive thud comes out of the speakers.  "And there's the heartbeat," he announces.  "A very healthy heartbeat at that."

 

Steve's hand has slipped into mine.  I squeeze it hard.  He squeezes back.  "We're having a kid," I tell him.  "We're having a fucking kid."

 

"We?" Steve asks, and Hank is nice enough to pretend like he doesn't hear it.

 

"We." I agree.  He kisses me on the top of my head, as Hank turns up the sound.

 

*

 

"And how can I help you today?" The saleswoman at the baby store is wearing a jeweled brooch in the shape of a rubber duck.  I eye it and her annoyingly pastel ensemble.

 

"You can fu—"

 

"We're crib-shopping," Steve says over me, throwing me a look that's somewhere between exasperated and amused.  

 

"Oh, wonderful!" the saleswoman says and claps her hands.  Her eyes light up like she's having her own kid, and I suddenly dread the rest of the afternoon.  "How far along are you, dear?" and her hand goes for my belly.

 

"Far enough to not be able to back out," I snap, and she freezes, hand an inch from my stomach.  "Back," I order.

 

"Jess—"

 

"I don't like people I don't know touching me.  She doesn't get a free pass because she thinks babies are neat."

 

"I apologize," the saleswoman says, and she pulls back her hand.  "I've found that most mothers are happy to let people take pleasure in their joy."

 

"Do you ask before you completely violate their space, or do you assume?" I ask.  "I'm pregnant, not a goddamned petting zoo."

 

"We'll just browse on our own," Steve says and leads me away before the saleswoman can recover.

 

"Sorry," I say when we're alone.  "I just…it creeps me out."

 

"Breathe," Steve says and waits for me to inhale.  "I'm sure we can find what we need without asking anyone."

 

"Don't be nice about this," I tell him, and I start to tear up.  "I shouldn't have yelled at her.  I could have been nicer.  I just—"  I stop and shake my head.  "Never mind," I say.  "Let's get a crib."

 

"You're sure?" he asks.

 

"Hormones suck," I state, and Steve chuckles.  "I swear if I become one of those sobbing basket cases, I'm going to make someone find a way to stick this thing in you."

 

"But that wasn't all hormones," he says.

 

"No," I admit, "but I can usually handle my personal space better.  I think half my brain's sunk into the kid already."

 

"Well, she's off to a good start, then."

 

I watch him as he checks the schematics on a bright white crib.  "She?" I ask.

 

"Or he," Steve amends.

 

"Do you want it to be a girl?"

 

He glances over at me.  "I want it to be healthy."

 

"And a girl."

 

Steve shrugs.  "Or a boy."

 

"You defaulted to girl."

 

He squints at me.  "Is it that big of a deal?"

 

I shrug.  "Weird, I guess.  Most people assume boy."

 

"Maybe it's your influence," he says and smiles.  "You're so great I want to see a little mini version of you."

 

"Lame," I announce.  "Fucking lame."

 

Steve laughs, walks a few more steps to the left.  "What about this one?" he asks, gesturing to a dark wood crib with a blue blanket hung over the side.  "I've always liked wood cribs."

I shrug.  "I don't really have a preference.  I don't know anything about cribs."  There's a display of sheets at the end of the aisle, and I poke through them; cartoon animals, pastel stripes, polka dots.  "Make me a promise," I say.

 

"What's that?" Steve asks, rapping his knuckles against the wooden crib and smiling.

 

"No cutesy sheets or blankets.  No dorky theme."

 

"What was your theme?"

 

I wrinkle my nose.  "It was all pink and lace until I was twelve."

 

"No dorky theme," Steve agrees.

 

"Excuse me," a woman says to my right.  I step away from the sheet display to give her room to move, and she holds out her hand, mouth already open to ask me how long before I no longer had to be violated by strangers.  Before I can say anything, Steve's at my side.

 

"I've narrowed it down," he says and moves me around the woman before she can say a thing.

 

"Thanks," I mutter.

 

"You're welcome," he replies.  "And I really did narrow it down."

 

*

 

He comes over to my apartment three days later to put together the crib.  There's a shopping bag and blanket over his left arm, and his toolbox in his right hand.  "I brought you something."

"I have a toolbox," I say.

 

"The bag and blanket" he replies and shakes his head at me. 

 

I take the bag and blanket to the couch.  The blanket is soft, Army green, and obviously homemade.  "Who whipped this up?"

 

"I did," Steve says.  "I learned to knit during the War.  When you told me you were pregnant, I thought you'd at least let me give you a blanket."

 

I smooth the folds of the blanket, run my finger along the edge.  "Thank you," I tell him, smiling.  "It's beautiful."

 

"The other one's for you," Steve says, nodding towards the bag.

 

I reach into the bag, lift out a stack of T-shirts.  "I have T-shirts."

 

"These are specialty T-shirts," Steve calls from my bedroom.  I hear the sound of his toolbox opening, hear the rustle of the crib instructions as he lays it flat on the floor.

 

There are seven T-shirts, all of them maternity-sized, all of them bright primary colors.  The top one says, "I'm pregnant, not a petting zoo."  The second one says "Bad Touch."  The rest are similar, and I lay them across the back of the couch, laughing. 

 

"I talked to Carol before I did it," Steve says, leaning against the doorframe of my bedroom.  "She said you'd like it.  I didn't want…"  He looks down at the floor, scuffs the toe of his boot against my worn carpet.  "I don't think you're weak to want your space," he says.  "And Carol said you would get what I meant and shouldn't explain myself, but we're in kind of a weird place already and—"

 

"Thank you," I interrupt him.  "Thank you a lot.  They're great.  It's all great."

 

He walks across the room, looks at the T-shirts from behind my left shoulder.  "And they apply to me," he says.  "If you want me to—"

 

"You're stuck with me," I tell him because asking him to marry me over T-shirts seems like a really ridiculous sort of reaction.  "The kid's half yours.  I could…" I trail off, turn to meet his eyes.  "I'm really, really shitty at relationships."

 

Steve's brow furrows.  "…okay."

 

"I mean, like, terrible.  Hindenburg terrible."

 

"Oh, the humanity?"  Steve asks, a smile sliding across his face.  "It's okay," he says.  He slides his hand over my belly.  I can feel the warmth of it through my shirt.

 

"I was lying last week," I admit.  "When I said I didn't love you."  Steve stares at me, and I force myself to keep eye contact.  "I'm not saying I do," I say in a rush, "but I'm saying I could.  Maybe.  I'm saying I want to."

 

"Even though you're shit at relationships?"

 

"Yeah."  I put my hand over his.  "If you'll have me."

 

"Even before this," Steve says, pressing his palm against my belly.  "Even without this."

 

I press my head against his shoulder, let him murmur nice things in my ear.  He kisses my cheek, and I lean into it, turn my head so he can kiss me on the mouth.  "We have to pick a name," I tell him.  "One for a boy; one for a girl."

 

"We've got a little time," Steve says.  "Let's slow it down a little."

 

"Okay," I agree, and I let him pull me closer, let him stroke my hair, let him hum something tuneless and waltz me around the room a few times. 


End file.
